


Matches and Butterflies

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Stangst, The Little Match Girl - Freeform, he lives, inspired by a fanart on Tumblr, mullet stan, so i've spent the past three hours writing a fic instead of sleeping, which emotionally destroyed me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: It's cold, and Stan's lighter is dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this piece by tumblr user jimsdeadbones which broke my damn heart so I had to fic/fix it: http://jimsdeadbones.tumblr.com/post/154676983677/the-little-matchstan

His lighter was dead.

He was down to his last two cigarettes and his car’d been towed again and his goddamn lighter was dead. It had been on the fritz for weeks, but he’d never gotten around to buying a new one. Ha. “Buying.” That was rich.

He kept clicking it anyway in case he could coax out one last spark.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

And then something gave and the sparkwheel detached under his thumb. His bare thumb, because he couldn’t move well enough with his gloves on to strike up a spark even when the lighter was working.

“Shit!” Stan swore, scrabbling in the snow for the pieces.

No use. They were gone.

They were gone and now that he wasn’t just striking over and over he suddenly realized how numb his right hand was. The snow barely felt cold. No. It was just that no part of him felt warm.

He should try moving. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Or was that just another thing people told him to make him go away?

There was more of that, this time of year. So much for Minnesota niceness. So much for that “holiday cheer” they made so much of. He knew what people meant by that. They meant, “You’re getting in the way of all our festive feel-good decorations. Get out.” They meant, “No, we’ll only help the poor if they’re well-scrubbed and penitent and grateful, not people like you.” They meant, “No, you can’t have the dollar that will keep your car safe until the morning, but you can have a can of pumpkin pie filling!” What was he supposed to do with pumpkin pie filling? Stab the can open and eat it like a dog? It wasn’t like he had a kitchen. Wasn’t like he had a house or a car or anything except the coat on his back and a busted lighter and a couple of pennies.

People like Stan didn’t fit into places like this. Except, maybe, as cautionary tales. “Now, sweetie, you don’t want to end up like that, so eat your vegetables and do your homework and don’t stay out too late!” Otherwise they might end up living out of their cars and eking out a living with their brains and their fists, and, sometimes, if things were bad enough, other things. Otherwise they might end up dying in a snow-covered alleyway because they had nowhere else to go.

No! That wasn’t . . . he wasn’t dead. Just cold. Just tired.

Stan slapped his hands together, pretending he could feel them, and huffed into his cupped palms. His breath had to be warm. He couldn’t’ tell but it had to be.

After a few good breaths he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, pushed his head back into his hood, and curled up around the tiny spark deep in his chest that didn’t feel frozen yet.

When he turned his head, a pile of snow fell off it and onto the pavement. He’d been there for a while. Since they took his car away. He wondered how much more snow was going to fall tonight. It was supposed to be warm under the snow, wasn’t it? The animals and things all burrowed under it and slept and stayed cozy all winter. Maybe if enough snow fell he could do that—just curl up and sleep until Spring.

He tried to wiggle his fingers. They didn’t want to move. He could almost feel them, though. Feel all the junk in his pockets. Those useless pennies. Old bits of paper. A faded photo with a crease down the middle. Used tissues. A book of matches.

Stan’s eyes widened. He’d forgotten—picked it up in some bar months back because they were giving them out, but never used it because he had his lighter, so why should he? But now . . .

He wasted the first one, his fingers too stiff and clumsy to strike it. The head broke off and fell into the snow. Nineteen left.

The second caught and flared and Stan half-sobbed at the warmth on his face, the blossoming of light. He crouched over it like it was a handful of gold, clutching it until it burned down to his fingers and then dropping it to the snow. The afterimages danced behind his eyes long after the match went out, little ghosts of light floating in the darkness around him. Eighteen left.

He managed to light a cigarette with the third match, his hands so unsteady that he nearly dropped it, but then the end was glowing and Stan cupped his hands around it, drew the warmth into his lungs. Closed his eyes.

He’d loved snow when he was a kid, when he could go run around in it with Ford and then come inside to the warmth of their house, kick off their snow boots and go running to the kitchen to beg for hot chocolate. They would have made the best snowmen after a storm like this, made forts studded with icicles and thrown snowballs at each other until their fingers went numb.

Winter was just like everything else. It seemed great until you had to live in it. Until you had no inside to return to. No brother to tell you it was time to go home. No brother at all.

One hand strayed back to his pocket, but then he stopped. The photo wouldn’t help, even if he could see it properly in the light from his cigarette and the seventeen matches he had left. They were too old in it. It just made him think of Ford’s face the last time he’d seen him, the beginning of the end. If he just kept his eyes shut he could remember a younger Ford, smiling and laughing and running ahead of him.

If he kept his eyes shut he could imagine an older Ford, one who looked like he did now—except with less fat and better hair and a face that wasn’t so sallow. A Ford who looked like Stan should look, if he’d had places to come inside to. And he could imagine himself—healthier, with fewer scars and all his teeth—sitting next to him. And they’d talk and laugh just like they had when they were children, and they’d drink hot toddies with emphasis on the hot and eat until they felt like they’d explode and—

His cigarette fizzled out. As Stan fumbled to light his last one he felt a drop of water round the curve of his nose and run down his face. He licked it, and it was salty on his tongue and already cold.

It took four more matches. Thirteen left. He slid the cigarette between shivering teeth and curled himself around it, holding his fingers probably too close to the glowing end. It didn’t matter. If he lit himself on fire at least he’d be warm.

Holding the soft orange light of his cigarette in his mind, Stan closed his eyes again.

He and Ford were in a bar. No, a house. Ford’s house. There was a fire burning, the flames low around the charred logs, the whole thing glowing so bright and warm that they had to be careful not to sit too near it or they’d singe their faces. Stan made a joke, and Ford laughed, easily, unguardedly.

The cigarette wasn’t between his teeth anymore. Stan blinked his frosted eyelashes and looked down. The glowing butt had landed on his jacket. He batted it away. For a moment there was warmth, and then the cold air began to creep into the hole it made.

He reached for the matchbook. His fingers wouldn’t move. They’d fallen to his sides while he . . . thought? Dozed? And now they wouldn’t work. His whole body falling apart like that useless lighter.

Thirteen. As many years as he’d been gone. Stupid, awful, useless years.

Stan scraped the snow off the brickwork next to him and struck the whole book at once. It felt like watching all his mistakes, all the last dozen years, go up in flames.

“Good riddance,” he mumbled, or tried to, but his teeth were chattering too much to talk.

The light flared, and burned, and died, and Stan was left alone in the dark. He closed his eyes and did his best to think of a world where it wasn’t dark. Where he wasn’t alone.

He was awoken by a light and pressure on his shoulder. He couldn’t open his eyes. Maybe he was tired or maybe they’d frozen shut. But he could see the light through them. Feel the hand gripping his arm and pulling him up.

“Come on, Stan. Come with me.”

The voice was familiar. Ah. Dreaming.

But then he tried to stand and the numbness in his legs gave way to pain. Whoever was standing there put an arm around him and stood as Stan took slow, stumbling steps. Something was wrapped around him. A blanket. His eyes would flutter open now, at least partly. He could see the green and yellow plaid of the blanket enveloping him.

“Nice and steady now, that’s it.”

He could see the gloved hand of the person who was supporting him. And feel it. It felt familiar, and maybe that was why he didn’t object to being led like a child. Not that he could have done much if he’d tried, but something made him feel like he didn’t need to try. Made him feel safe.

They turned, and a bell rang, and there was light all around him and warmth like a wave, and that was when he realized. He could feel the person’s fingers pressing into his arm. One-two-three-four-five-six.

“F—” he tried through chattering teeth. “F— Fo—”

*

“Well look who’s awake! Let me get you a fresh coffee, hun!”

Stan hurt. Not the usual way, the cuts and bruises that had been a staple of his life for as long as he could remember. His whole body felt like it was made of pins and needles, like he’d lost a fight with an army of tiny but determined hedgehogs.

He took the coffee from the waitress—waitress? Where was—why was he here?

A quick look around confirmed that he was sitting in a turquoise leather booth in a retro-style diner and an elderly waitress was smiling at him.

“I heard your car broke down and you got stuck in the snow!” she said. “You poor dear!”

Well . . . close enough. Stan wrapped his hands around the coffee cup and felt the pins and needles shift as the warmth seeped into him. Apart from his mug, there was another half-drunk coffee cup on the table. Black. And there was also a pair of very thick woolen gloves. Stan picked one of them up. It had the normal number of fingers.

“Your friend had to leave, I’m afraid,” the waitress continued. “You were a little loopy when you arrived, but he said to tell you not to worry, everything will be fine.”

Stan laughed. Of course. That was just the kind of meaningless drivel that so-called do-gooders always said.

“Also he paid for your all-you-can-eat, so I can take your order whenever you’re ready!”

“Right!” Stan’s head was finally starting to feel less frozen. “My, uh, friend. What did he look like?”

“Oh, well.” The waitress paused to stare into space. “He was an older gentleman. Gray hair. Very polite.”

“Did—” The thing he thought he’d seen was impossible. Or at least the conclusion he’d drawn from it was impossible. But he had to ask. “Did he have six fingers? On both his hands?”

“You know?” said the waitress, “I honestly didn’t notice his hands. Sorry, hon!”

It was a stupid thing to imagine. Just his fantasies spilling over to whatever sap had decided he was worth helping. Just his imagination screwing him over again. But the voice . . . he’d been so sure . . .

Stan took a sip of his coffee. He hated it black, but it was hot, and he could feel the warmth spreading down his throat as he swallowed. The diner had those lamps that dangled down from the ceiling, covering him in orange light.

When he was done, he discovered that there were several crumpled bills inside the gloves the mystery man had left behind. Not enough to get his car back, but enough for another few meals or at least one night in a hotel. And a new lighter.

*

“Yeesh, Sixer, how long does it take to pick up takeout?”

Ford backed into the hotel room, a huge paper bag under one arm and his room key clutched between his teeth. Stan laughed moved to take the food from him.

“You could have asked for help, you nerd.”

Ford pulled the key out of his mouth and pocketed it.

“I had an errand to run,” he said, stamping the snow off his boots. His glasses were fogged over and he stumbled on the hideous paisley carpet until Stan took his arm and directed him to a chair. It hadn’t been snowing when he left, but you could never trust the Minnesota weather. Stan had learned that the hard way a long time ago.

He hadn’t remembered that particular storm until they’d gotten into town. He recognized it. Recognized the welcome sign that called it, “The Prettiest Little Town In The Midwest!” He’d almost changed the sign to read “Pettiest” back when he’d first come through, and that was why he’d started telling Ford about it. It was supposed to be a funny story. He’d just forgotten how much of his time here had been spent nearly freezing to death.

“It’s not like that was unusual!” he’d said, trying to lighten the mood, and it was only after he saw Ford’s face that he realized it was the equivalent of Ford saying, “Don’t worry; I’ve felt things much more painful than brain-worms!” when everyone was horrified at one of his Portal stories.

At least he seemed happier now.

Stan unfolded the top of the takeout bag and sighed contentedly as the smell hit him, warm and rich and spicy. Then his glasses were fogged over too and Ford laughed as he had to step back to clean them.

When Stan could see again, Ford was kneeling on the floor, slipping a small boxy thing like a tape measure or a clock into one of him bags.

“You go present-shopping?”

Ford blinked, and looked contemplative, and blinked again. “In a way?” he said.

And then there was no more talking as they tore into their curries. Ford always insisted that he’d built up a high spice tolerance during his travels, but his eyes watered and he kept getting up to refill his glass from the sink.

“Did you ever figure out how you felt about the butterflies?” Stan asked later, when he was leaning back in his chair with his shirt unbuttoned and the Styrofoam containers sat empty on the table.

“Hmm?” said Ford, who looked as full and contented as Stan felt.

“Before you left. You were going on—you were arguing with yourself about butterflies changing the universe. Or something.”

“Oh. That’s . . . it’s nothing. It’s a metaphor.”

“Eugch,” said Stan, because he suspected it would make Ford laugh.

He was right.


End file.
